


wear you out like last year's vogue

by explosivesky



Category: RWBY
Genre: Also Love, F/F, except yang who has her middle-class shit together, happy 6/9 day :), it's money. it's sex. it's power, rich kids au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 18:53:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19156912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/pseuds/explosivesky
Summary: Maybe she's tired of the limitations of wealth, the grandeur, the opulence. Maybe she's tired of seeing the same people day in and day out whose only substance is composed of the drugs they snort. But without that, there's only Yang - Yang who smirks at her like there's a joke she's never in on, who shows up in spaces she doesn't belong and makes them want her.Belladonna, Yang says, her eyes glittering as if opalescent. I’ve been bored.Nobody ever talks back to rich kids, and Blake loves it a little more than she dares to admit. That doesn’t last. It never does.





	wear you out like last year's vogue

**Author's Note:**

> what's better than surprise porn? a small server i'm in with some other writers/artists decided to celebrate 6/9 appropriately. playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1H7TeovyerMAeacKtjQbVQ?si=iWY-LoltRIqxJaZfBqyffQ). half this fic was written to see through by the band camino alone. enjoy ;)

Blake Belladonna is a pretentious bitch. 

The only reason Yang knows her at all is because she runs in Weiss’s circle, where all the twenty-somethings do: haughty, bored, and with more money than they've ever had original ideas. She’d met Yang months previously with her lips a dark red and her eyelids smoky, extending a hand as if dainty, delicate. As if she’d expected Yang to bring it to her mouth and leave a kiss. Like she’d known her own worth and took great pleasure in marking it up. 

They’d clasped hands. “Yang Xiao Long?” she’d said mildly. “Weiss talks about you...frequently.” 

Yang had smiled, tight, and then eyed her leather pants and boots and white crop top underneath her fuzzy grey cardigan - no doubt worth thousands of dollars - and said, “Weiss talks about you when you’re relevant to her story.” 

Blake’s eyes had narrowed; the corner of her mouth curled. Something had passed between them, then; something Yang _understood._

Nobody talked back to Blake like that, because nobody ever talked back to rich kids. 

And Blake, in all her pompous, disdainful, raven-haired and golden-eyed grandeur, _loved_ it.

\--

Yang only manages invites to very specific events, but she’s never left out of a single one meant for her: kickbacks, birthday parties, my-parents-are-out-of-town ragers; everything that doesn’t require money itself to pass.

She’s not _in_ their circle - she’s not wealthy, doesn’t have important parents, doesn’t come from splendor and opulence - but she’s _cool._ She’s effortlessly cool, the kind half the kids spend inordinate amounts of money attempting to replicate. She has her own apartment and she isn’t in a bad neighborhood. She knows exactly who she is and what she’s doing with it, and it’s the kind of self-sufficient stability everyone else admires. It’s like she doesn’t _need_ money, like it doesn’t impress her at all - and it’s insanely, outrageously appealing. 

She also restores motorcycles for a living, an occupation that gives her incredibly defined muscles and the enviable air of honest, hard work; she also knows how to _ride_ them, a detail Blake’s once again forced to reckon with when Yang roars up to Weiss’s on a Friday night, straddling the seat of a yellow-to-orange hued 1940 Indian Chief. Glossy, beautiful, like it’s never been touched - she’s probably put months of work into it.

Sun and Neptune meet her at the end of the driveway, already eager and awed like five-year old boys rather than adults; she slips her helmet off her head, hops off the bike, and humors every question they lob at her with an easy grin. 

Blake watches it all from the back gate, staring down the driveway with a red solo cup of Maker’s 46 in her hand. She and Yang are _familiar,_ but nothing more; she’s Weiss’s friend. That’s something set in stone. Yang probably wouldn’t show up to something Weiss wasn’t at, though she’d definitely be invited.

On this occasion, Weiss’s parents have taken her younger brother Whitley to Paris as a high-school graduation gift, leaving her with an empty house and a perfect opportunity. 

Blake’s been there for an hour already, on the verge of giving up - sometimes Weiss’s parties grow _dull,_ and that’s a point where she thinks of dragging Sun off, fucking him to relieve the boredom. It doesn’t usually work, but it’s still better than sitting at a table half-drunk with a group of twenty-three year olds whose only substance is composed of the drugs they snort.

Until Yang, at least - because the first thing Yang does upon walking up the driveway is meet Blake’s eyes, let her grin unfold. She slips her round sunglasses off her face, folds them into the collar of her shirt - oh, of _course,_ Blake thinks, leaning against the gate with her arms loosely crossed. Of _course_ she looks incredible. 

She doesn’t even _try._ She’s wearing a black AC/DC Back in Black t-shirt, loosely tucked into her dusty-red cuffed pants, and black sneakers Blake vaguely places as Old Skool Vans - Sun, who came from newer money, owned a few pairs. He’d thought they were cool. But they look infinitely better on _her,_ like she could’ve stepped out of an Instagram feed for street fashion, resentfully casual at five-nine with her blonde hair tumbling down her back.

“Belladonna,” she says.

“Xiao Long,” Blake answers in return, their usual greeting. She’s not sure where it started, and even less sure why - but she can never quite get over the sense that she’s being teased. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Yang says, which _isn’t_ part of their usual greeting, and forces a momentary pause while Blake considers her angle. 

“Are you?” she asks eventually, but her indifference is never as effective on Yang as it is on everyone else. 

“Yeah,” Yang says, and she steps forward, plucking Blake’s cup straight from her hand and knocking back a swig; it’s so unexpected Blake doesn’t have a chance to stop it, and her instinct is more of bewilderment than it is of offense. Yang wipes the corner of her mouth with the back of her wrist, and her smirk glitters. “I’ve been _bored_ recently.” 

She says _bored_ like a threat, like a crime with a punishment. She doesn’t wait for a response, despite lingering for a moment before brushing by Blake into the yard with their bodies too close for the breath of a second and their eyes locking - Blake’s disinterest loses to her intrigue, and Yang’s nothing but challenge, ominous enough for an edge.

It’s only after she’s steps ahead and Coco’s calling her name that Blake catalogues her boredom as the opportunity it is, as an offer. She’s not sure what exactly it entails, not sure she’s even interested; sure, Yang’s attractive in every sense of the phrase, but she’s not _worth_ it. That’s what she tells herself as she retreats back into the yard, anyway.

So it’s a coincidence that it’s Yang she sits next to at the table where Coco’s starting a game of King’s Cup. And it just makes sense to pick Yang as her partner when she draws an eight. And when there’s a waterfall, Yang waits an extra ten seconds to stop drinking, knowing Blake’s right after her - but it doesn’t mean anything. 

Maybe Blake’s been bored, too. 

\--

It’s a game with one motive: get everybody drunk. 

Yang draws a jack and makes a rule for _no names,_ which fucks all of them over spectacularly - Neptune and Sun just resort to slurring the word _dude_ over and over to get attention, but as they’re a group of people who don’t normally respond to being addressed as such, it only marginally works. 

It ends when Velvet cracks the can - she’s forced to shotgun over the grass, everyone standing around her and cheering. Weiss, Pyrrha, and Ilia watch from the spa, all in various states of mild amusement. 

Except Yang, who Blake catches slipping out the gate onto the long driveway and follows her.

“Hey,” Blake says, and Yang turns around in a brief surprise, joint hanging between her lips. She’s holding a lighter in her right hand, and a water bottle sits on the roof of Weiss’s Aston Martin. 

She relaxes upon seeing Blake. “Hey,” she says, continues flicking the sparkwheel. “You want a hit?” 

“Of that cheap shit?” Blake says. “I’ll pass.” 

Yang merely rolls her eyes, grinning. She exhales smoke as she speaks. “I buy from Sun,” she says, and oh, of _course_ she does - they smoke the same weed. “So unless your problem is with my mouth”--she takes a step forward into Blake’s space, tilts her head down to emphasize their height difference--“I think you’re safe.”

 _There’s_ the challenge. “Maybe it’s just _you_ I have a problem with.” 

But Yang only laughs, and it’s clear she doesn’t buy it for a second - she takes another deep hit, stubs out the joint on a groove in the stone masonry of the house. Blake doesn’t live here, and so she doesn’t care. As long as they’re getting somewhere. 

Which they seem to be, fast. “Admit it,” Yang says, brings her arm to the wall over Blake’s head, drawing inwards. Blake only watches, masked and unreadable aside from the smirk playing about the corners of her mouth. “You think I’m hot.” 

“I don’t think you have nearly enough money to be as confident as you are,” Blake says airily in response, brings her cup to her mouth. But she’s losing, as much as she doesn’t want to admit it, as light and untethered as she keeps her voice. She could slip out from underneath Yang’s arm, walk back into the party, spend the rest of the night eating finger sandwiches and pretending to laugh at the boys’ bad jokes. She could, but she doesn’t and she won’t.

Yang’s smile burns sinister - something of a storm, both threatening and beautiful - and leans even closer, forcing Blake to lower her cup. She says, “You don’t care about money,” and Blake’s eyebrow twitches at an incline. “You have more money than you know what to do with. You think ninety percent of your exclusive, wealthy inner circle is full of shit.” She casually lifts her free hand as she speaks, runs her index finger along Blake’s jawline; Blake tilts her head on instinct, gives her access. “They do cocaine because they can afford it; you’d rather be reading some profound, philosophical musing on life - like _The Alchemist_ or _Siddhartha_ or _Journey to the East._ ” There’s that tiny hitch to every inhale, air leaking from her lungs. Yang drifts almost Blake’s ear, drops her voice even further, reckless and bold as she murmurs: “They wouldn’t know how to fuck you even if you wrote them an instruction manual.” 

Okay, so, it’s possible Blake’s underestimated her. Fire spreads up the brush of her veins, lights her cheeks. Not embarrassed. Hot. 

“You’ve been bored,” Blake says slowly, and this is already the best proposition she’s ever gotten.

“I’ve been bored,” Yang agrees, their lips inches from each other and her smile slipping wide.

\--

It isn’t something to talk about. Yang kisses her, Blake allows it - her tongue sweeps hot and consuming in Blake’s mouth, her calloused fingers still soft against the inside curve of Blake’s neck - and then says, Two hours, Belladonna, and I’m taking you home.

You better not be all talk, Xiao Long.

Oh, I’m gonna do a lot of talking, and you’re gonna do exactly what I tell you to.

\--

She’s sober by the time she sneaks out of the party with Blake hours later, who’s on her way but hadn’t committed quite like Yang had. She only has one helmet and she makes Blake wear it - safety first, she says dangerously, the double-entendre unmasked. Blake wraps her arms around Yang’s waist, feeling the heat of her skin through her t-shirt, feels her muscles firm beneath her hands - and she thinks of ripping the helmet off, telling Yang to fuck her on the bike, bend her over the seat. But Yang revs the engine, kicks off the ground, and maybe she’ll save that request for a different day. 

\--

Yang’s apartment is small by Blake’s standards, but then again, nearly everything is.

There are more pressing matters at hand. “Safeword?” Yang asks, breath hot against the inside of her ear; she skims her teeth over her earlobe, and purposefully, slowly exhales. Blake’s shiver is almost violent in its response, goosebumps erupting over her skin. Kisses from her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth. Kisses skin like it belongs to her. 

“Poverty.” 

Yang’s eyes flash in the darkness, amused at the response but deeming it unfitting for the course of the night; Blake knows she’s in trouble before they’ve even crossed that line. “Feisty,” she comments, and her grip tightens just slightly. “What’s your _real_ safeword, Belladonna?” 

“Target,” she says instead. The concept stands, but Yang only smirks wider and allows it. 

“I’m not into titles or roleplay,” Yang says conversationally, twining strands of Blake’s hair through her fingers. “You can use my name, my last name, whatever - all that _I_ care about,” she continues, and here’s the ground rules, “is that you’re good at doing what you’re told.” 

It’s directly against Blake’s nature, but there’s a difference in the darkness. So she says, “I think that’s something we can work on,” and mirrors Yang’s smirk. Good luck, she’s saying. Give it a try.

She sees the appreciation for her bite, even if she doesn’t get to feel it - Yang tugs sharply on her hair, seems satisfied by the muted gasp, the way her chest heaves, tightens for a moment. “I’m not going to be rewarding you for your snark tonight,” she says, and with every word she locks herself away - or maybe she’s letting herself loose. Her irises rise in more red than lavender. “You’ll answer me only when I ask you to. You won’t touch me unless I say so, and even then, you can’t touch my hair. And you will _not_ cum unless ordered to.” She senses the tensing of Blake’s body, the inherent argument and rebellion inside of her, and shifts her grip to Blake’s chin, catches it between her thumb and index. Forces Blake to maintain eye contact. All Blake can comprehend from up-close is how _gorgeous_ she is, her flawless skin, her full lips--“Actually,” she finishes, “you’ll ask me permission to cum, and I’ll decide if I want to allow it. Understood?” 

“Yes,” Blake says, her voice a little too high and breathy for nonchalance. 

“Good.” Yang gives her a kiss, the brush of lips, and she pulls on the fabric of Blake’s red shirt, tucked into her black high-waisted shorts. They’re tight, too - show off the curve of her ass, barely covering the tops of her thighs - and lifts it overhead, careful of the long necklace of a cross around her neck. "Think of this as a trial run."

And then she tosses it on the floor like it’s nothing, examining Blake from top to bottom, lingering appreciatively on her breasts, her stomach, her legs. “Take off your boots.”

There’s no way to do it gracefully - they’re kind of punk boots, silver spikes jutting out from the heel. Yang keeps a hand on her waist, steadies her - and then smiles even broader when they’re off, distinctive and predatory. Because now she’s _really_ looking down. 

“Good,” she says again, and continues stripping Blake until she’s left only in her lingerie, trembling under Yang’s gaze. Yang’s taken her clothes, her height, her money - or her expression of it - left her bare. Left her shivering. Left her wet. 

Yang sweeps her hair over her shoulder, thumbs the trail of her collarbone, and she’s a strange mix of things both soft and cruel, of blades and beauty - she likes what she sees, but she also wants to ruin it. 

That’s what Blake wants, too. Ruin.

“Lie down,” Yang says, nods to the bed behind her. “And close your eyes.” 

Her bed’s comfortable; that’s the thought in the back of Blake’s mind with her eyelids shut, like an idle soothing of her nerves - but it’s replaced the minute Yang crawls over her, whispers _open_ \- and now she’s left in her own underwear, cleavage spilling out of her lace bra, her boyshorts hugging her ass - _open_ \- Blake thinks of opening a lot of things, her legs, her cunt, her ribcage-- 

Yang’s far, far beyond stunning - she’s _sexy,_ she’s _filthy_ hot, abs defined and the _do not cross_ lines of her biceps - hair up in a loose bun, eyelashes long and fine, lips pink and hungry - she captures Blake’s mouth, kisses like there’s a war she’s won and she’s standing in the aftermath - and then she falls to her jaw, her neck, her chest, maneuvers around the necklace. She takes time with her torture, unhooks Blake’s bra and slides it off her arms, rolls a nipple between her fingers before taking it in her mouth and sucking, lightly catching it between her teeth - Blake’s an inch away from writhing, her heart pulsing in the hollow of her throat, her breath turning into little flightless gasps--

Yang _loves_ this, Blake recognizes immediately - she runs her hands all over Blake’s skin, like she can’t believe how tiny Blake is in comparison to the size of her own hands - she switches to Blake’s other breast, flicks the nipple with her tongue and takes it in - Yang hadn’t told her not to moan and she allows herself the sound, the hum breaking the silence - Yang pauses for a split second, grins, continues to her sternum, her stomach--

She palms Blake’s hips, fingertips trailing the line of her underwear. Brings her head down, dips between her thighs - exhales through the lace, inhales her cunt, smirks at the smell of sex, the proof that if one of them had ever been all talk, it’d been Blake--

Presses a kiss directly over her clit, and immediately upon reflex, Blake shoots a hand to Yang’s hair. 

Yang sees it coming, lifts her head, catches Blake’s wrist in her hand firmly - it almost hurts, but in the good way, the pressure of breaking boundaries - and now she’s a searing red, her lips in a hard line. 

“What did I say?” she asks lowly, shifts up onto her knees again, still grasping Blake’s wrist. “Answer me.” 

“Don’t touch your hair,” Blake breathes out, feels wetness seeping through her underwear. 

Yang’s eyes glitter. “And what did you do?” 

“Touch your hair.” It’s almost a whimper. 

She straightens fully, releases Blake’s arm, goes for her hips instead, tugs her body down to the middle of the bed. “Get on your knees,” she commands, backing away. Blake does as she’s told, almost winces at the sound of Yang’s feet hitting the floor. Not out of fear. Out of anticipation.

She watches the imprints of her own weight against the mattress, how her palms sink, fingers spread; the cross dangles from her neck, but the only judgment she values is coming from the girl behind her, now settling close to her ass with something denim clutched in her hand. Yang tugs her underwear halfway down her thighs, humming at the slickness of the material - her clit throbs, swollen - she’s sure she’s glistening in the dim light, from Yang’s perspective, cunt hot and aching--

“This is why I hate rich kids,” Yang says cooly, slipping her belt from her jeans and looping it in half, leather warm in her hand. She drags the edge of it from the top of Blake’s spine and down, over every bump and ridge, cataloguing the goosebumps breaking out across her skin. It comes to rest on the curve of her ass, a warning, a threat, an absolvement. “You’re never taught any _fucking_ manners.”

Blake doesn’t speak, doesn’t break the rules with the punishment so threateningly present - Yang hums behind her, pleased by her silence, and brings the belt down across her ass in a firm stroke, creates a _crack_ of the air--

Somehow, the shock of it is still more than Blake expects; she gasps, muscles tensing automatically, feels the wetness gush sudden between her legs - she hadn’t considered this as something she’d be _into,_ but the stinging after, the total lack of control--

Yang smacks her ass again, her other palm flat against her lower back, curving around her side and steadying her. And again. And again. And again. Blake’s body shakes with the force of it, the pain spreading like needles - she has the sheets tightly wound in her hands now, face _burning_ with her blood, tears pricking the corners of her eyes - she isn’t sure how long she can stand it, her skin must be a bright red, her elbows on the verge of giving out, and then--

Yang stalls, leather just resting on the stinging flesh of her ass. “Does it hurt?” she asks, running a flat hand over the marks that are undoubtedly there. 

“Yes,” Blake whispers, only able to discern her shaking in the stillness. 

A pause - that in itself is a threat. “And do you like it?” 

No, she wants to say, but opens her mouth and suddenly can’t lie. It _burns_ \- her skin’s raw and on fire - it’s fucking humiliating, not listening to instructions and being punished for it - but Yang’s hand dips between her legs, and her fingers come away so wet there’s no point to it anyway--

“Yes,” she says, tenses against the inevitable final strike at the admission, and she isn’t disappointed. 

She gasps like she’s drowning afterward - thighs shaking, arch of her spine sinking with every breath, collapsing in on herself. The belt is tossed somewhere on the floor, and then Yang’s running a soothing hand over her ass, lowering her down to the bed, carefully helping her turn back over - but even in the display, Blake knows it’s just a necessity of their roles and not an indication that she’s atoned. No, no - Yang slips her own underwear off, bra already gone, and pushes her flat against the mattress - and that’s a different kind of pain, one not entirely pleasant, her position uncomfortable with her sensitive skin, but then--

Yang crawls up her body and doesn’t stop, slots her knees on either side of Blake’s head, one hand gripping the headboard - and suddenly her cunt is right _there,_ bare and glistening an inch from Blake’s mouth. Yang scratches her fingertips against Blake’s scalp, cups the back of her head, curling into her hair and says, “Lick.” 

Well, so, Blake’s never really _slept_ with a girl. And clearly, that’s been the problem this entire time. 

But it’s a secret that probably won’t serve her too well under current circumstances, and so she pauses, meets Yang’s eyes and hopes it’s enough to convey the need for an exception to be made.

She gets one better - Yang takes that single look at her, eyebrows raising slightly, and says, “You’ve never gone down on a girl before, huh?” 

“No,” Blake says, voice hoarse and husky. “But I get the general idea.”

Yang actually cracks a smile at that - genuine, outside of the intensity of the moment. “Alternate between a flat tongue and sucking my clit,” she says. “I like to grind.” 

“Fuck,” Blake breathes out, and that’s _almost_ pushing it, settling back to the mood. She’s so _hot_ \- she loosens her hold just slightly on Blake’s head, thigh muscles flexing under her own weight, and Blake starts with a broad stroke up her slit; she’s sweet to the taste but there’s a tang to it, addicting and sharp, and Blake lifts her head higher, wraps her lips around Yang’s clit and sucks, flicks it with her tongue - Yang tugs on her hair, and she flattens her tongue again, lets Yang grind into her mouth, feels her cum smearing across her chin, her jaw--

“Fuck,” Yang murmurs above her, staring directly down as she fucks Blake’s mouth. “You can touch me.” 

Blake hadn’t realized she’d been white-knuckling the sheets, but the minute she’s given permission her hands fly to Yang’s thighs, nails digging in and holding her there, giving her lips better leverage - she can’t get enough of the taste, the heady scent, wants Yang to cum in her mouth, wants to swallow every drop-- 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Yang murmurs again, throwing her head back, body trembling. “Blake _\--_ ” 

Her stomach muscles tighten, jaw falling open, fist tightening in Blake’s hair - she releases her breath in a series of choked moans, and Blake only pulls her closer, tongue lapping at her cunt and refusing to release - Yang indulges her a few seconds longer, like she admires the tenacity, the desire, and then pulls away, leaves Blake’s jaw a mess, lips glistening. 

And then she grins, lifts a finger the Blake’s chin and tilts it. “Not bad,” she says. “For your first time.” 

_So let me have a second,_ Blake almost says, goes as far as has her mouth open - but then she shifts and her ass reminds her exactly why she shouldn’t. She shuts it. Yang grins even further, eyes narrowing slightly. Proud. 

“My turn,” she says, and nudges Blake’s knees apart, finds the sheet soaked underneath her and her thighs slick. She keeps her gaze darkly amused, smile careless. Blake can almost _feel_ herself being compared, being contemplated, being judged - and Yang says, “Spread your cunt for me.” 

Maybe Yang’s testing her limits, how many orders she’ll take and how long she’ll take them - if she gets worse with time or better, if she cracks under the pressure - but she’s too far past self-image and reflection to care. She dips her fingers down, doesn’t even think of touching her own clit or fucking herself - she does exactly what Yang asks and waits, regardless of how exposed she feels, how open and vulnerable and nervous.

“Good,” Yang says, and settles onto her stomach, arms slipping underneath Blake’s thighs. “Hands under your pillow. If you touch without permission, I swear I’ll tie your wrists behind your back and edge you for the next two hours.”

Blake nearly sobs from the idea alone - she’s been so wet for so long, clit throbbing, cunt aching - wraps her fists tight around the pillowcase, ribs taut through her skin, chest heaving - and Yang finally lowers her mouth to Blake’s cunt. 

It’s the most instantaneous relief she’s ever felt - she arches, tries to press herself closer, hisses at the pressure on her raw skin - but Yang’s tongue is there to circle her clit, to flick it, to stroke broadly, lightly suck Blake’s clit into her mouth and scrape it with her teeth. She’s been eaten out before, but never by somebody who really knew what they were doing, and it’s an entirely different kind of euphoria.

She barely lasts, but she’s miraculously supposed to - “Can I cum?” she exhales, and Yang only laughs against her cunt. 

“Yes,” she says, “but I’m not going to stop.”

Blake _shatters,_ that’s the equivalency, that’s the intensity of it - and Yang doesn’t stop, just pushes her tongue deeper, just sucks harder, just swallows what she can taste. It’s close to too much, straddling that line - she’s holding Blake’s thighs down after twenty minutes to stop her from closing them, forcing Blake to multiple orgasms she doesn't think she’ll be able to have, so strong she’s still nearly sobbing from the pleasure of it - and Yang finally acquiesces, slows her tongue, loosens her grip. Sits up, sees Blake writhing on the sheets, panting and frustrated, and decides she’s had enough.

“Does it hurt?” Yang asks gently, the tone instantly recognizable of one signaling an end rather than a continuation. Blake takes a moment until she nods, bottom lip tight between her teeth. Yang wraps a hand around her hipbone, presses flush to her back, Blake’s ass against her her hips - and Blake hisses, the burn amplified against Yang’s warm skin. But she doesn’t fight it. She’s learned her lessons. 

Yang drops her lips to Blake’s ear, whispers, “Shhh,” and dips a hand casually between Blake’s legs, nudging her thighs open; she’s somewhat resistant until she realizes Yang’s intention, and then her knee slowly crooks up, spreads her open.

She’s still unbelievably wet, and her entire body trembles as Yang’s fingers drift over her clit, light in their pressure, careful not to overstimulate. Her chest flutters unevenly with every breath and the line of her spine sinks deeper and deeper into the curve of Yang’s body, almost cradled by the time Yang slips two fingers into her cunt. 

She keeps one hand tight around the pillow case, the other in a fist and closed over her chest. She remembers Yang’s _no-touching_ rule now, wants to spare herself any further punishment; it fills Yang with a vicious type of satisfaction. One night. She almost laughs - Blake’d been so ready to obey from the moment she’d been dragged back to Yang’s apartment, there’s no way she hasn’t spent copious amounts of time being disappointed by boys with no imagination.

Blake’s cumming all over her hand, even without actually crossing that edge yet; her bottom lip is red and swollen, cheeks flushed. She’s still somewhat on her side, head resting on Yang’s upper left arm, quiet sounds starting to build in her throat - Yang curls her hand, grasps Blake’s chin somewhat roughly, fingers pressing to her lips. 

“Suck,” she says cooly, and Blake nearly chokes on her moan, wrapping her mouth around Yang’s fingers, tongue hot and wet. She’s still fucking Blake with her other hand, lazy and dismissive. 

And then she pulls out, cum stringing from Blake’s cunt to her fingers, and finds her clit again, rubbing small circles until she catalogues her sensitive spots - Blake likes long, quick strokes, from Yang’s fingers to her palm, leaving her room to grind. It’s dirty, messy, and exactly what Yang expects from her.

“Yang,” she tries to say around Yang’s fingers. “Can - can I--” 

They’re muffled and almost impossible to distinguish, but Yang understands regardless, smiles. “Good girl,” she says. “Cum for me.” 

When she cums, it’s almost violent in its silence - her whole body tightens, rolling low in her stomach, and Yang slips three fingers straight back into her cunt to feel it, the way she clenches and throbs and trembles - she whines around the fingers in her mouth, and Yang relents there, drags them from her jaw to cup her breast, thumbing a nipple. But her breath stays trapped in her lungs for what seems like an impossibly long time, releasing in short, imperfect patterns. 

It takes her awhile to come down - she drifts further into bonelessness against Yang’s body, and then she seems to enjoy being held - not quite comforted, but appreciated. It’s so fitting of her personality that it only reads as endearing, rather than superficial and pretentious. 

“Feel better?” Yang murmurs, pressing a kiss to her hair. It’s time for her to play _her_ parts, the soft ones - it isn’t all about the aggression, the orders. Blake did a good job, and she’s allowed to be taken care of for it. 

“Mmm.” She can’t seem to manage words in response, too content and full. She’s falling asleep, but she can’t quite give in without an invitation - it’s obvious from the way she fights against it, keeps lightly adjusting her hands, licking her lips. 

“If you want to,” Yang starts slowly, rubbing a palm gently across her side - the red lines from Yang’s short nails still stand out against her skin from when she’d raked them down to hold Blake’s thighs - “you can stay here tonight.”

Blake opens one eye, eyebrow sinking over it as she turns her head slightly. “Here?” she asks, and it doesn’t come out with the tone Yang expects it to - it isn’t _here_? This shithole? - it’s _here_ as in _your bed, here_ as in _with you_. 

“Yeah,” Yang says. “Here.” 

She adjusts slightly, more onto her back without the discomfort, now meeting Yang’s gaze with both eyes. The look she’s wearing remains unreadable, exploratory. There’s something internal, a war, a warning. 

And then she says, “Can I borrow a t-shirt? And shorts?” 

“Depends,” Yang says, ignoring her heartbeat. She’s lucky Blake’s here at all, but she won’t admit that until much, much later. “Are you going to complain about it if I spent less than a hundred dollars on it?” 

Blake harrumphs, rolling her eyes. “ _No._ But I’d prefer pure cotton, otherwise I might break out in hives.”

Their gazes lock once the rotation ends. Yang stares, hard. Blake stares back harder. 

“You’re joking, right?” Yang finally asks, breaking the stalemate. She’s not sure what she’ll do if Blake says _no_ \- either die laughing or shove Blake’s underwear in her mouth, teach her another lesson.

But Blake’s lips quirk, and Yang’s chest constricts a little less. “Yes,” she says, amused. “Believe it or not, I _do_ have a sense of humor.” 

“Oh, I believe that,” Yang says, and shifts off the bed. “The entire evening before we got here was a joke.” She opens her middle drawer where she keeps her sleep shirts, tosses one randomly onto the bed behind her. 

“Ha- _ha._ ” 

Even her sarcastic laughter is endearing - Yang’s gotta shake herself from _that_ road before it leads somewhere dangerous. She pulls a black tank overhead, tugs her hair loose, and turns to find Blake gazing strangely at the shirt. 

“What?” Yang asks, frowning at her. Everything about the scene in front of her is unexplored territory, no automatic intuition. “It’s clean.”

“It’s...cool,” Blake says slowly, as though she’s confused by her own opinion. She slips her arms through the sleeves, pokes her head through the collar and straightens it out, looking down. “I like it.” 

It’s just a white t-shirt with a print of a skull on it, flowers blooming from its sockets. But it’s probably wildly different from anything Blake ever wears, and that’s definitely the only reason Yang says it. “You can keep it, if you want.” 

“I couldn’t,” Blake says primly, but the devil blinks out of her eyes. “You own so little as it is.” 

Yang throws her head back and laughs, delighted by her bite. “You’re lucky the moment’s over,” she says, grinning, “or you’d be back on your knees.” 

\--

Yang puts on _Friends_ in the background before they sleep, gives Blake lotion and a cold water bottle which she wraps her mouth around greedily - Yang follows the arch of her throat, the movement of every swallow, thinks about wrapping her fingers around it - and Blake smirks as she lowers the bottle, intuitive enough to connect those dots.

“Maybe next time,” she says pointedly, doesn’t even stumble over her own admission. From once to a future in so short a period of time - Yang wants to say some snarky, cocky remark: _one good bare-minimum fuck and you're mine_ , or _guess money couldn't buy a vibrator that gives you orders._

Next time. That’s a fantasy Yang lets wrap her up for a little too long to count as a casual silence. 

“Your ego is suffocating,” Blake says after a moment, her gaze fixated on the television, sinking into the pillows.

“Coming from you, princess, I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

She shoots Yang a dirty look at the pet name, but it doesn’t stop her from falling asleep with her back pressed into Yang’s chest, and it certainly doesn’t stop her from waking up with her head in the crook of Yang’s neck. 

And it definitely doesn’t stop her from keeping Yang’s shirt.

\--

She makes it exactly thirty-four hours before she succumbs to the new number in her phone. 

“So you want this to be a regular thing, huh?” Yang asks, frustratingly casual as she leans against the booth of the bar, feet kicked out underneath the table and crossed at the ankles. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You didn’t have to.” She allows her stare to drop openly, trailing across the skin revealed by the low collar of Blake’s dress. It’s a very passively interested observation, designed for power. Like she’s _allowed_ to look at Blake however she wants, whenever she wants to. “ _You_ invited _me_ out for drinks. I’m not stupid.”

“Fine,” Blake concedes, because she’s not about to look like a fool for pride. That’s Weiss’s thing. “You were right. What you said to me at the party, before you even took me home. They _don’t_ know.” 

“But I do.” It isn’t a question.

Blake’s lip curls. “Obviously.” 

Yang considers her, head tilted at an angle. “Was any part of the other night too much for you?” 

“No.” That’s a simple one to answer, and it's make-or-break; she's aware Yang'd gone easy on her. She shrugs a shoulder. “I didn’t come close to my safeword, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

Oh, that’s the _wrong_ thing to reveal - or very right, depending on how she’s looking at it; Yang’s eyebrows are high, even though her surprise appears mild. Something about the admission gets her mind racing, a mental highway on a roadtrip. Everything spread out open and wide before her.

“Are you seeing anyone else?” Yang presses on, like a checklist she’s going through. “You fuck around with Sun occasionally, right?” 

“Sometimes,” Blake says. “But he’s…” she stops, frowns. Yang laughs at the expression alone. 

“I get it,” she says, smirk nearly knocking itself out in egotism. “He’s no me.” 

“Arrogance doesn’t look good on you.” 

“Sweetheart,” Yang says, reaches out and skims a finger across her wrist, “I think we both know that’s not true.” 

\--

There’s a party. There’s a lot of parties. 

Only now they end in Yang’s bed, Blake’s wrists tied behind her back and her tongue lapping desperately at Yang’s cunt - Blake on her knees, Yang pumping into her with a decently-sized strap-on and hitting every perfect angle the boys can’t manage with their real dicks - Yang, forcing her to beg until her throat is raw, holding her at an edge for over an hour - Yang, using scissoring as a punishment, Blake’s cunt and inside thigh as something to grind and cum on, something to fuck and leave the next day. And it’s incredible. 

She’s still punished fairly often - she can never seem to keep her sharp tongue tucked away, dropping remarks about how she’s fucking below her class, how letting Yang touch her at all is an act of charity - and Yang’s sinister smile stretches every time, fingers curling around her neck, flipping her onto her stomach, fisting her hair and tugging her head back as she sinks a dildo into her.

Blake’s never felt so _good_ in her life, never been so satisfied. She stays the night, and sometimes they argue playfully and laugh until the sun starts to rise, even without sex. Sun approaches her a few times with propositions and she pulls out an endless arsenal of excuses - she uses _I’m on my period_ two weeks in a row, twelve days apart, and he just whistles and nods seriously, like he understands.

She meets Yang’s eyes across the yard, any yard. Smiles with a corner of her mouth. Those are nights Yang lets things _slip_ \- lets Blake get away with a smart remark, a touch, an orgasm. Those are the nights Blake looks in the mirror and finally sees someone she likes.

\--

Weiss interrupts her at the pool; she’s stretched out in a lawn chair in her bikini, sunglasses on and phone on silent. It’s one of the few activities where she can get away with stagnancy; it’s not that she’s lying down because the rest of her body’s too deliciously sore to do anything else, it’s that she’s _tanning._

“Blake,” Weiss greets politely, dropping her purse near the chair next to her. “Where did you disappear to last night?” 

She thinks about keeping it a secret, but secrets only count as ammunition to the wealthy. Money’s nothing - they’ve all got tons of it. Secrets can be used against you. So she says, blithe and candid, “I’ve been fucking Yang.” 

She expects stunned silence, an open mouth, a wide-eyed disbelief. She expects sputtering and outrage. She expects a storm, expects it to get up and thunder straight out of the garden. What she _doesn’t_ expect is Weiss to sigh like Blake’s just told her something predictable and disappointing. 

“Of course you have,” Weiss says, pinching the bridge of her nose with her eyes shut, as if the revelation had struck her with an instant headache. “I knew inviting Yang a few weeks ago had been a bad idea. You’re _exactly_ her type, and she _said_ she’d been bored recently...” 

“Her ‘type’?” Blake repeats, surprised to find herself jealous of the prospect of _more, others._ She’s never been fucked like that - Yang obviously knew what she was doing, but still, Blake likes believing in a singularity between them. Likes believing Yang’s never enjoyed anyone else the way she indulges in Blake, in her fingers, in her mouth, in her cunt.

“Beautiful, arrogant, dismissive, disinterested,” Weiss ticks off on her fingers, and then smiles brutally. “Acts like nothing touches her, but loves to beg to be touched.” 

So, Blake has two options: the first, of course, is to listen to her impulses, to follow exactly what’s expected of her - curl a lip distastefully, turn up her nose, tell Weiss to get the hell out of her yard and go fuck her not-boyfriend in the missionary position for the third time this week. But she’s realized she doesn’t want to do what’s expected of her unless she’s getting rewarded for it. 

She rolls her head back to center, too content for fake-spiteful arguments. “And how many orgasms have _you_ faked this month, Weiss?” 

“There’s no need to be so crass,” Weiss responds, falling for the bait. Sometimes Blake’s not sure why the two of them tell each other anything at all, but then remembers they’re probably best friends or something. “It’s not as if I’m _wrong._ ” 

“No, just boring,” Blake says, propping up a knee. She’s playing her parts perfectly, allows her grin to develop that edge, shift to a smirk. “I think being her _type_ is working out well for me so far.” 

“For _now_ ,” Weiss says, narrowing her eyes to the hickey poking out of Blake’s bikini top. “But you’re selfish. We both know you don’t know how to _share,_ Blake - and you aren’t going to own her, no matter how badly you’ll end up wanting to.” 

That’s a hit, dead center, and it stings like one. Finally, Weiss breaks through, finds her hot temper and irritation underneath the surface. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she snaps, and her throat hardens uncomfortably at the reminder of Yang’s t-shirt, carefully folded in a hidden corner of her dresser. 

“I’ve known Yang for years,” Weiss says, and now it’s about the shift of power - of _knowing._ “You think you’re the first person I’ve seen her ruin? She’s the best sex everyone who sleeps with her ever has. And none of _them_ liked giving her up, either.” 

“It’s just sex, Weiss, not some soulmate-affirming act that you clearly imagine it to be,” she responds, sitting up. Suddenly the heat’s getting to her, skin too warm and sticky. “She’s fucking me _,_ and _sometimes_ ,” she emphasizes deliberately for the lead-in, “I just want to fucking _cum._ ”

She gets up to leave, but she can’t be done, not when she hasn’t ruined Weiss’s morning, not when she hasn’t said anything that won’t take an expensive brunch to recover from. Plus, she’s left herself the perfect doorway into the combination of intimate knowledge and brutality, and she’ll never waste that regardless of what it ruins.

“By the way,” she says, slipping her glasses up her forehead for the dramatic effect of direct eye contact, “the reason you don’t cum when Neptune fucks you is because you’re a lesbian. Don’t take your sexual frustration out on me just because I know what I like, even if that _is_ being tied up and choked.” 

She almost considers feeling bad as she walks away, but her hips ache deliciously with every step and her skin burns, and she entirely forgets to feel anything else.

\--

The first time it happens, it’s an accident.

She’s shopping online. It’s not unusual in itself. But she starts noticing clothes she wouldn’t have noticed before, starts thinking about how good they’d look on someone else. Someone who spends most nights fucking her absolutely senseless, and maybe deserves a thank-you once in awhile. 

It’s a black leather bomber jacket from _Golden Goose_ with a fur collar and a brown-lined pocket on the left side, giving it casual, asymmetrical appeal - and then she’s thinking about Yang, thinking about her motorcycle, thinking about how _hot_ she’d be wearing it. And then it’s in her cart, and she’s checking out, and she doesn’t even blink at the total of twenty-five hundred dollars. She even pays for expedited shipping. 

Her parents are hosting an event, and because she’s bored of getting what she wants when she wants it, she invites Yang.

 _no underwear,_ Yang texts. _understood?_

_Yes._

She follows through - hopes Yang doesn’t force her to drip down herself all night, hopes she gets the smallest semblance of relief - but the minute Yang arrives, she throws that wish straight out the window. Kicks it out of the neighborhood. Flings it straight into space.

Yang’s dress isn’t designer, but it might as well be from how incredible she looks in it. 

She’s left her long hair wild and loose, but the kind of wild that jumps from models and fashion campaigns - natural, a pseudo-effortlessness. Her eyeliner’s dark, gold eyeshadow fading into a smokey eye, and her lips are a stunning burgundy that matches the color of her dress, which is a deep v-neck, short-sleeved maxi dress, though the dress itself stops at mid-thigh and only continues past in a sheer lace with a leaf-like pattern, slit up the side. There’s a thin gold lining around the waist, almost like a belt, and her heels are a beige with gold straps, putting her close to six feet.

The longer lace of the dress billows behind her as she walks. Several people are staring. Blake’s the only one of them that matters. Or, at least, she’d better be. 

“Belladonna,” Yang greets, smirk destructively wicked. “Thanks for the invite. Shall we shake hands? You can test the firmness of my grip.” 

Blake laughs unexpectedly; she's _very_ familiar with the strength of Yang's grip already, pinning her wrists to the mattress. “No, thanks,” she says, and she needs to touch Yang _right now_ or she’ll die. “A hug is customary.” 

“Oh, is it.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well then,” Yang says, and wraps her arms around her, lips just above her ear. She fingers the material of Blake’s gold dress - apparently Blake’s having a similar effect on _her._ “You look beautiful, baby. There’s a reason I’ve always called you _Belladonna._ ” 

It’s the first time she uses a pet name that isn’t _princess_ or a sarcastic _sweetheart_ \- it’s uttered too affectionately, cradled in her mouth. And now Blake knows why, knows why she’d always felt teased, out of the loop, on the wrong side of the joke - because Yang’d been calling her beautiful all along.

Blake’s heart thunders around her chest, the storm stronger in her body than in the sky. 

“Come with me,” she says, and takes Yang’s hand.

\--

Yang only stares at it. And stares, and stares, and stares. 

“I can return it if you don’t like it,” Blake finally says, voice more uncertain than she’s used to. It’s hard to read Yang; it always is. She’s just sitting on the corner of Blake’s bed, the leather jacket held delicately in her hands. 

Yang’s gaze darts to her, flicks back, can’t decide where to land. “You _bought_ this for me?” 

“Yes,” Blake says dryly. “I’ve heard that it’s customary for people to sometimes give gifts to other people, as a token of appreciation.” 

That’s a smart remark that gets Yang to shut her mouth, fall into her defaults. She levels Blake with a _look._ “Blake,” she says flatly. “How much did you spend on this?” 

“Like nothing.” 

At that, Yang sighs heavily, still stroking her hands over the leather. “So at least a few grand.” 

“Almost nothing. Like I said.” 

There’s an eye-roll torn between exasperation and affection, and Blake doesn’t think Yang even knows which emotion won. “You can’t buy yourself out of paying for shit like that later, so watch it.” 

“That’s _hardly_ fair,” Blake whines, aiming for endearing over irritating. “We haven’t started officially. This doesn’t count. I’m giving you a gift.” 

Yang doesn’t hide her smile, but she doesn’t seem like she’s openly displaying it, either. “Come here,” she says, extending a hand, and Blake takes it. “Are you wearing underwear?” 

“No,” Blake says. 

“Good.” She doesn’t take advantage of that yet, only tugs Blake close and kisses her. “Thank you.”

It feels right.

\--

She eats Blake out in the bathroom during a dinner toast - Blake’d been so wet all night she’d been afraid of ruining her dress, left a damp spot on the fabric, but after this it’s a likely possibility - and leaves lipstick kisses peppered over the insides of her thighs. She makes Blake beg her to cum, even though the chance of someone overhearing is high, and Blake can't stop herself even if she wants to, Yang’s name falling breathily from her mouth in between _please_ and _fuck, god._

"Slut," Yang murmurs darkly after, kissing her until she tastes herself on Yang's tongue.

Later on, her parents tell her they think Yang’s a wonderful girl with her head on straight, and it’s nice of Blake to have friends of different backgrounds. 

You’re absolutely right, Blake agrees. I needed to expand my horizons.

\--

She starts to _buy_ Yang stuff. Clothes, shoes, parts for her motorcycles. It made me think of you, she’ll say, and Yang doesn’t protest, just regards her with a fond sort of disapproval, like she knows exactly what the truth of it is even if Blake doesn’t know herself.

\--

She and Weiss finally get around to their expensive apology brunch, a full two months after their original disagreement. They’d seen each other several times since then, but it’s never officially resolved until brunch.

“Still seeing her?” Weiss asks, far more casual now that time’s passed.

“She’s interesting,” is all Blake says, fronting the same mild disinterest she’s so accustomed to wearing. She runs her fingers through her bangs, still staring at her menu like it’s the most compelling thing in the room. 

“She fucks you half to death,” Weiss replies flatly, not even bothering for eye contact; such a bold-faced understatement is hardly worthy of it. “You can barely _sit_ , Blake.” 

The corner of her mouth twitches. “And what would you know about that?” 

Weiss’s lips curl into a half-smirk, amused by the ease of the admission. At least she’s a girl who picks her battles. “Admittedly, not a lot,” she allows. “But I _am_ observant.” 

Christ, Blake thinks; rich people are all so fucking dramatic. Maybe Yang’s right about them. “And what have you _observed?_ ” 

“Well,” Weiss says, “you like her,” and somehow that isn’t at _all_ what Blake expects her to say. 

She drops her menu against the table, blinks as if trying to shake her eyes out of her skull. “Excuse me?” 

Weiss only tuts under her breath, too smart to be fooled by indignant denial. “Please, Blake. It’s obvious. You’re either with her or you’re thinking about her, and that’s it.”

She’s _proud_ of herself, Blake realizes. Proud she’s pinned something down that _definitely_ isn’t there, proud she’s exposed Blake for settling low. It has that _edge,_ the comment, not like a casual crush but a trap, a downfall. As if she’s saying, of _course_ that’s your type.

Blake wants to slap her for it. 

“As I just said,” she states calmly, saving face, “she’s _interesting_. She isn’t like us. You’re _her_ friend, and I know you admire her for that exact reason.”

“I do,” Weiss agrees, sets her menu down candidly. “But I don’t think about having sex with her, and I definitely don’t spend thousands of dollars buying her clothes, or parts for her motorcycles, or whatever else her heart desires.” 

Well, fuck. 

Weiss and Yang are _friends._ That’d been the original context of everything. 

“Look,” Weiss says, sensing her obvious panic. “I’m sorry for what I said. I think you’re good for her.” She pauses, presses her lips together. “Actually, I think you’re good for each other.” 

It’s a strange change of a heart. “Why?” 

“She’s...calmer,” Weiss says slowly, clearly figuring out her words as she speaks them. “Stable, I suppose. I always used to feel as if - as if she were _searching_ for something and never finding it. She was so restless. Some days, I swore she was on the verge of asking me to buy her a plane ticket to anywhere that wasn’t here, and run away.” 

“And now?” Blake asks, just to have the proof herself.

“Now,” Weiss says, “I think she’d rather be with you.” 

\--

By the way, Weiss tells her as they’re walking to their cars, you were right. I’m definitely a lesbian. 

What made you realize?

Well, I came when Pyrrha fucked me.

That’ll do it.

\--

It’s a theory to test. A hypothesis. 

She spends the day with Yang in her workshop, asking her questions about her builds, her modifications, how each part fits into the whole. Yang dutifully answers every single one, even lets her help where it’s applicable, tightening bolts and passing tools.

She meets Ruby there, too - Yang’s younger sister - who only takes a single glance at her and says unprompted, “Oh, _Blake!_ ” 

“Yes?” Blake responds, in obvious confusion.

“Yang talks about you,” Ruby provides context. “She talks about you _constantly_.” 

“I will crack this wrench on your skull,” Yang says cheerfully. “Permanent brain damage.” 

“I’m just saying--”

“Get out.”

She shakes her head after, tosses Blake a sly look, and the lack of embarrassment is startling, as if she thinks it’s mutual between them. Blake’s heart rattles in her chest, something under lock and key. 

She’d _loved_ it. She’d loved hearing proof of the possibility of being _more_ , just as she’d loved hearing it from Weiss a couple days previously. 

It isn’t quite terrifying, but it’s enough for a bad decision.

\--

It’s another Friday night, and another boring event. 

She doesn’t invite Yang. There’s a reason for that.

Her proposal is anything but subtle; she eyes Sun up and down, his disheveled blond hair and obvious muscle, and decides he’ll do. She’ll prove her points. She takes a sip of her champagne and says, “We should have sex.” 

He blinks, lips curling surreptitiously. “Uh,” he says, “what?” 

“Do you want to, or not?” 

“I mean, _yeah,_ ” he says, and opens and closes his mouth without words, fumbling over himself. “I just - I wasn’t expecting you to ask. It’s been awhile--” 

“Whatever.” Blake downs the rest of her glass, sets it on the tray of a passing server. She nods her head to the house behind her. “Let’s go.” 

“Now?” 

“Now,” she says, wondering why it’s so hard for him to comprehend, or if he’s always been this stupid.

He has enough sense to follow her into the house, up the stairs, shut the door behind them - she runs her hands through his hair with purpose, curls her fingers and tugs; if it were Yang, she’d already be spun around and bent over, underwear bunched around her knees. But he doesn’t seem to notice or care, letting her take whatever control she wants, passive and pliant beneath her hands. She kisses him, and all she thinks about is how his mouth is too rough, how his tongue moves sloppily in her mouth. She hadn’t realized how _messy_ boys were, how little finesse mattered to them. 

She strips her own shirt overhead, and his follows - she goes to the button of his jeans, works the zipper down, feels him hard through his boxers; he’s trying to do the same thing to her, but he’s clearly not sure how to match her pace, or why it’s being set in the first place. It’s not difficult for him to get hard. All she had to do was take her shirt off.

He kicks off his jeans, getting into the desperation of it even if he doesn’t know where it’s coming from - slips his boxers down, rolls a condom on - she tugs her own underwear down her legs. He kneels in front of her, rough fingers rubbing her cunt - she gets impatient, gestures him over her, to get it over with--

“I’m trying,” he says, bewildered by her demeanor, “but, Blake - you aren’t wet enough. I - I can’t.” 

She touches herself. He’s right. It’s like she’s the opposite of horny - like she’s mummified or something. That’s how dry she is. For a moment he just waits - he’d never force himself inside of her like this, she hates lube, and either way--

“Forget it.” She shoves him off of her, sits up, grabs her underwear off the floor and gets dressed with an increasing urgency, a frustration. “Whatever. I’m leaving.” 

“Leaving?” he repeats, blinks owlishly. “Blake, you like, live here.” 

“I don’t care.”

He pauses, examining her. He’s not the most sensitive of guys, but he isn’t really an asshole, either. He knows something’s off. “Are you okay?”

Unfortunately, she’s not really in the mood to reward basic decency from a man. “Get off my bed,” is all she says in response, and he scrambles up as the door shuts behind her.

\--

Yang answers on the third ring. “Hey, babe.” 

It’s not like it’s an unusual greeting, but with the week she’s had - Weiss’s comment, Ruby’s slip, her failed encounter with Sun - her heart is beating against her skull, and it’s the first thing she’s felt in days. “Hey. Can you pick me up?” 

There’s a background clatter - something heavy and metallic; she’s probably working on one of her own projects, Blake realizes with a pang of guilt, but Yang beats her to the punch before she can take it back. “Yeah,” she says, more alert. “Are you okay?” 

“I just want to see you.” It’s the best she can do. 

A subtle pause of contemplation. “Okay,” Yang says, softening so noticeably that Blake almost cries. “I’ll meet you at the end of the block.” 

Yang passes the fancy, flashy cars parked outside of her house; she pulls to stop between an Audi and a Tesla, where Blake is standing with her arms crossed over her body, waiting. She plants her feet solidly against the pavement, lifts her helmet off, and her muted concern is instantly visible; she eyes Blake up and down, as if checking her for signs of injury. It’s real emotion, genuine care, and it’s almost too much.

She’s wearing the leather jacket Blake had bought her, that’s the first thing Blake comprehends. Despite her protests, despite her complaints - she’s settled snugly into it like a first skin, molded perfectly to every curve. Blake’s mouth feels thick and heavy with paint, her head full of roses. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Yang asks bluntly, but Blake only grabs the second helmet and slips onto the bike behind her without giving her an answer. It’s infinitely easier than straddling Sun has ever been, and she’s eased just by the closeness, the smell of the leather and jasmine of Yang’s hair. 

“I don’t want to be here,” is all she says in response, wrapping her arms around Yang’s waist. 

“Okay,” Yang says, and it’s enough.

\--

Yang gets her inside the apartment, tosses her keys on the entryway table, leads Blake to where she’s most comfortable. The bed’s there, unmade and inviting, but Blake recognizes the sheets as fresh. She thinks that says something. That she knows.

“What d’you want, baby?” Yang murmurs, captures her mouth in a kiss. She curls her fingers through Blake’s hair, brushing it away from her cheek and behind her ear, meets her stare too directly and openly when she pulls away. Not a challenge, but a question. “Because I can fuck you, if that’s what you’re here for. I can punish you like you’ve done something bad. Did you do something _bad_ , Blake?” 

“No,” Blake says, but she’s shuddering, drawing closer. She thinks of Sun, thinks of his mouth on hers, thinks of the harsh angles of his muscles and how wrong he felt on top of her. Her body rolls hot, every inch aflame. She can’t lie to Yang. “I don’t know. Yes.” 

But that’s the thing about Yang - _no maybe yes_ isn’t an answer, only a guidance, and she seems to know what Blake wants better than Blake knows it herself. 

“What’d you do, baby?” she asks softly, slips her hand down the front of Blake’s jeans, lightly touches her over her underwear, and Blake’s breath hitches. 

“I tried to - tried to fuck Sun,” she whispers, and - not unprecedented in its entirety, just this scenario - wraps her arms around Yang’s neck, rests their foreheads together. “But I - he - it just...didn’t work. It - I couldn’t.” 

Yang’s touch slows, becomes a feather-brush against the fabric over her clit. She has her eyes open, brow slightly furrowed, and then she leans in, catches Blake’s lips with her own - kisses her, tender and concerned. She’s not Blake, doesn’t have a possessive streak, doesn’t run at the first spark of jealousy. 

“You couldn’t?” she repeats, removes her hand, cups Blake’s jaw instead. 

“I don’t want him,” Blake confesses honestly, shocked to find herself trembling in Yang’s arms. “It’s like - like I don’t want _anyone_ anymore. Anyone but you. And I - I knew this was just sex, I know you’re not - not _mine,_ but I--”

Yang brings a finger to her lips, silences her gently; she can’t tell if it’s a game or if it’s _them,_ can’t tell if it’s lust or if it’s love, but then Yang drops her arm, murmurs, “I can be yours.” Her eyes dart to Blake’s mouth and back. “But that makes you mine, too.” 

Her tongue slides briefly over her bottom lip, nerves of admission. Blake’s heart lifts out of fog, finds her blood. She whispers, “Okay.” 

Yang starts to unbutton Blake’s white blouse, every movement careful and precise. It’s not that it’s slower than she’s used to, but it’s softer; she slips her hands underneath the fabric, drags it over Blake’s shoulders and off. Her black jeans follow the same arc, boots kicked off, and Yang slides her fingers down the front of her underwear.

“Sorry,” Blake unsticks her voice from her throat, still deep in her own head and simultaneously so far out of it. “I might not be - I _want_ it, even if I’m not--” 

Half of Yang’s mouth slips up at a corner, understanding the collision of her thoughts. “Baby,” she whispers against her lips, “you’re dripping.” 

And as if to prove her point, the fingers ghosting over her clit dip lower, slip straight into her, and _fuck,_ Yang isn’t wrong, isn’t exaggerating - she’s so wet she can _hear_ Yang fucking her, slow and passive and deliberate, a gentleness present that she’s never felt previously. And then Yang removes her hand, sucks her own fingers into her mouth, eyelashes fluttering - her lips are pink and shiny when she removes them; Blake watches her cheeks hollow, wants to die on the sharp curve of her cheekbones - pushes Blake lightly back against the mattress, tugs her underwear off, shifts down between her legs, spreads her thighs apart. 

She wipes her fingers against her bedspread, and then she pulls at the hair tie around her wrist, loops her hair into a loose bun before settling on her stomach. Blake’s already trembling - it’s like the first time all over again, like she’s waiting on her knees for Yang to bring a belt to her ass, only she’s bare on her back with Yang’s mouth hovering over her cunt and a soft, meticulous tongue. 

Yang looks up at her, meets her eyes, too tender to pretend to be anything else. “You can touch my hair,” she murmurs, and Blake almost cums from that allowance alone. 

She licks the length of Blake’s cunt, tongue pressing briefly inside of her before she parts her lips over Blake’s clit, almost like she’s kissing it. Yang’s never eaten her out like this before - there’s no power dynamic at play, no edging, no game - she _wants_ Blake to feel good, wants her to cum into her mouth and all over her bed. 

She builds into it attentively, sucks on Blake’s clit and scrapes it gently with her teeth, and then settles back into long, broad strokes. Her arms are situated around Blake’s thighs, holding her open, accessible, and Blake can’t stop watching her - she keeps her eyelids shut, reveling in the taste, like she’d swallow all of Blake if she could. It’s so erotic, so sensual in its simplicity, that after she releases a tiny moan in her throat, Blake’s hands finally - _finally_ \- find the top of her head, curling into her hair.

Yang only smiles, murmurs hot against her cunt, “Good girl.” 

\--

I want to touch you, Blake says after, breaks every rule. But tonight’s different, and even Yang can tell. Please, she says, and Yang allows it. 

She ends up grinding against Yang’s thigh, three fingers buried inside of her, Yang canting her hips with every stroke, chasing the pressure of her palm against her clit. Yang clenches down on her fingers so hard it almost hurts until she finally slides them out, soaking and circling Yang’s clit instead, her own cum smearing up Yang’s thigh. 

Yang moans her name as she cums, and in her daze she only experiences the sound as an alarm, a trigger - she hits the edge, pressing herself even harder into Yang’s thigh, her own orgasm hitting suddenly. And then pauses, just as Yang does.

“Did you just cum?” Yang asks delicately, but she leaves room for a hint of warning in case Blake’s in the mood for that particular game. 

She is. She is. She is. “Yes,” she whispers, face still content in the crook of Yang’s neck. “Punish me.” 

There’s no calling what it’ll be - it changes based on Yang’s whims, the situation, what they’ve done leading up to the offense. Tonight, she’s on her knees with her face pressed flat into the sheets, hands bound behind her back and resting against her lower spine, and Yang’s pounding into her with a strap-on - it’s one they’d bought for the aesthetic, less access to Yang herself but comfortable, similarly cut to boyshorts, silky and hot - her hair’s wrapped in Yang’s hand, head jerking with every thrust - she purposely avoids Blake’s g-spot until she hears her moans shifting from breathy to agitated, the pleasure too good without being _enough,_ and then she spreads Blake’s knees even further, angles her hips--

“Cum,” Yang orders, fingertips digging sharply into her hips. 

Blood pounds in her ears, in her neck, in her clit - she cums so powerfully she almost forces Yang out a little, but Yang doesn’t let up, keeps her pace and fucks her just as hard through her orgasm. Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stop through the second, or the third, and Blake’s cunt is so raw she can’t believe she’ll ever cum again. 

She does, but she doesn’t remember it.

\--

She wakes up hours later, groggily blinking her eyes open, and shifts a fraction of an inch before realizing the dildo’s still inside of her, and Yang’s asleep, buried in her to the hilt. 

She cums almost immediately at the realization alone, clit throbbing, chest expanding and fracturing - she gasps; Yang’s fingers tighten around her wrist, smile spreading against the back of her neck - and she pumps her hips slowly as Blake convulses. 

“Yeah,” she says after, finally slipping out, and the emptiness leaves Blake panting and ruined. “That’s what I was waiting for.” 

\--

Blake can’t really move in the morning; Yang holds her up in the shower as she massages shampoo into her hair, legs trembling under her weight. 

“I think we’ll take it easy for a few days,” Yang says, clearly delighted with her work.

“Fuck you.”

“We can talk about that as an alternative.” 

She winds up curled on Yang’s couch afterward, mug of tea in her hand with the TV open to Netflix. Yang’s shuffling around in the kitchen, more inclined to coffee. She hears the _drip, drip_ into the pot, and then Yang appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

So Blake asks her, “Can I stay here for the weekend?” 

Yang observes her for a moment; there’s no risk of her saying _no,_ but there’s something else. “Sure,” she says, and the other shoe drops. “If you tell me what you’re really doing here.” 

It’s an out, it’s a plea, it’s a bargain - it’s not strange of her to ask. Blake’s got an entire mansion to share with only two other people, and instead of losing herself in its rooms, lounging by its pool, she’s hiding out in Yang’s tiny apartment. 

_I love you,_ that’s what she should say in response. _I love you,_ that’s what Yang’d meant when she asked. It’s not quite the time.

Instead, she looks away - focuses on the coffee ring staining the wooden table, something familiar and worn and signaling presence, life. It’d drive her mother crazy. She says, “I’m just so fucking - _bored_ of it all.” It isn’t the whole truth, but it isn’t a lie, either. “I don’t _want_ to sit there quietly and be polite and listen to people who think they’re important try to convince other people of their importance. I don’t want to drink red wine and talk about Wall Street and act like I’m above it all. I’m not. I’m _not._ ” She says the last note with a wavering finality, daring to meet Yang’s eyes. 

She finds her sympathetic, softer. Yang says gently, “Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” 

The sting of tears comes as a surprise; it’s not a reaction Blake predicts from herself at the question. But it’s always something deeper. She says, “I wasn't the nicest to you.” 

“We were having fun,” Yang shrugs off, unaffected. “I wasn't the nicest to you, either.” 

“Yeah, but I liked it.”

“So did I.” She gets a smile out of Blake at that. “Look - being a pretentious, wealthy asshole is kind of in your blood, Blake. I don’t think we’re ever gonna work the literary snobbish side out of you, or how you frown every time you see pleather.” Blake grimaces at the word itself, entirely proving Yang’s point, and Yang fights back a laugh. “But I know what else is there, too. I know everything beyond that. I know that you secretly love extra-salty McDonald’s french fries, and you wear my ten dollar t-shirt to sleep almost every night you’re home. I know your favorite movies are actually Titanic and Notting Hill _,_ and you only _say_ it’s Casablanca to get people off your back. And I know you want to do more with your life, and it frustrates you that you’ve been so confined to your lifestyle that you don’t know what _more_ is.” 

It’s all completely accurate, and it’s the revelation of the detail Yang’s kept about her- stored away and filed, labeled as _fragile, important_ \- that finally bursts the words into a river. “I love you,” Blake confesses, like she’ll pour and not stop. She’s never known the feeling, how it consumes and creates and crucifies. 

“I know that, too,” Yang replies, rolling her eyes harmlessly, and Blake’s surprised to find her smiling. “Spending money is your love language, baby. You haven’t been very subtle about it.” 

Blake’s always blindsided by people who know her feelings before she does. “What?” 

“Blake,” Yang says patiently, “you’ve spent about ten thousand dollars on me in the past month alone. And I know it wasn’t a _thank-you_ for the many orgasms. It’s because you were thinking about me.” 

She reaches for one of Yang’s couch pillows, brings it to her chest, and buries her face in it without a word, absolutely mortified. Yang’s laughter echoes out, and she raises it again, halfway between a glare and a bargain. “What the fuck is a love language?” 

“How you express your affection or whatever,” Yang says, setting her mug on the coffee table and squeezing in next to her. Too close. “There’s like, five I think. And yours is definitely gift-giving.” 

“Fuck.” It’s not really an argument, and Yang seems entertained by the crumbling of walls, one arm resting over the back of the couch as she turns to face her. Blake asks, “So what’s _yours?_ ” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” 

“Maybe if I knew what the others _were,_ ” Blake points out. “Now who’s pretentious?” 

Yang’s eyes flash, slip to the hint of red. She smiles with her teeth and says, “Acts of service and physical touch are mine. They go pretty hand-in-hand, don’t you think?” 

She thinks of all the time Yang’s spent learning every inch of her skin, not like worship but like sacrement - leaving fingerprint-bruises that ache deliciously to the touch, dusting her mouth like birthing constellations, rising oceans - touching her after with hands softer than the lilac of her eyes, tracing her veins, charting course - her spine blends into a canyon - there’s been a journey here, there’s been an atonement - Yang leans in, covers Blake’s mouth with her own, kisses her too tenderly for her mind to keep up with. 

It all falls away, goes blissfully blank. Maybe that’d been the sign all along. 

“I love you,” Yang murmurs over her lips, eyelids still shut, and bumps their foreheads together. “Even if you _are_ a pretentious bitch whose ringtone is _River Flows In You_.” 

“I love you _,_ ” Blake says in response, smiling, palm cupping her cheek, “even if _you_ are an arrogant asshole who thinks _Arrested Development_ is the greatest sitcom of all time.” 

“You just hate it because they’re basically you.” 

“Shut up.”

\--

In the end, she’s got enough money to run them both away, as long as they’re together.

“Anywhere you want,” Blake says, tangled up with her in bed. 

“You know,” Yang says with a smile, brushing her thumb across Blake’s bottom lip, “I’m actually happy right where I am.” 


End file.
